


The Black Knight

by ichaelis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichaelis/pseuds/ichaelis
Summary: Ever since the Fall of Cintra, he haunted her nightmares: the Black Knight. Beneath his winged helm, however, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach is only a man, set on making right what he helped make wrong. Together with Geralt of Rivia and a band of misfits, Cahir sets out to rescue the Child of the Elder Blood: Ciri, the Lion Cub of Cintra. And he will sacrifice whatever necessary to ensure the Princess' safety, even if it means selling his own soul...
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

City of the Golden Towers, 1262

.

“Did the Emperor say what he wanted?”

A warm mid-morning sun filtered in through the high-paned windows, painting rainbows on the rich, velvet carpet. Standing before a full-length mirror, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach smoothed a stray, stubborn black curl behind his ear. He was meeting with Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard, the White Flame that Dances on the Graves of his Enemies. He needed to look _perfect._

Cahir’s servants had selected a black tunic with a high neckline and belled sleeves that hung like a cloak over fitted sleeves with lacy, silver cuffs for him to wear when meeting the Emperor. Fitted to his slim, but powerful, form, the tunic was embroidered in several large, red roses in shimmering red thread and lined with silver silk. Matching silver buttons, molded into rose blossoms, kept the corners of the tunic closed, while a leather belt cinched his tapered waist. He looked every bit the elegant nobleman his title suggested, though he was far from comfortable; he much preferred the weight of steel and sword.

Ceallach aep Gruffyd smoothed the creases from his own, considerably modest, black tunic, readjusting the heavy sunburst chain hanging from his neck. “No. Though I suspect that whatever he wants, it must be important. Remember to mind yourself, Cahir. Do not speak before being permitted – ”

“I know how to behave in front of the Emperor, Father,” Cahir snapped, a bit too harshly. The truth was, Cahir was nervous. The Emperor frightened him – as he frightened so many men since taking back his throne from the Usurper.

An Elven servant finished polishing Cahir’s leather boots to a shine and stepped back obediently.

In many ways, Emhyr var Emreis was a kind and noble ruler. A man of superior intellect, the Emperor had restored peace and prosperity to each of the Empire’s vassals, including Vicovaro. He’d spared the lives of those who submitted to Nilgaardian rule, even pardoning murderers, rebels and thieves, and retained each of the provinces rulers, though with lesser titles. Ceallach, for instance, still technically ran Vicovaro in the Emperor’s stead, but held the title of seneschal, rather than King.

But in other ways, he was fearsome. There was little mystery surrounding his reclamation of the Imperial Throne, though it was his supporters that truly crippled the Usurper. Emhyr had been missing, hiding somewhere in the corners of the Empire, since Fergus var Emreis’ murder. When he’d returned, the he had the Usurper executed – not before having him tortured. Emhyr had no issues with pardoning petty criminals. He, however, could not suffer traitors.

Cahir, checking himself one last time in the mirror, followed his father out of the room, through the Imperial Palace to Emhyr’s office rather than the throne room. The Emperor was casually seated behind a large table covered in letters, maps and thick tomes. He was scribbling something on vellum when Cahir entered.

“Your Imperial Majesty, my son, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn,” said Ceallach formally and bowed at the waist.

Without looking up from his correspondence, Emhyr replied, “Thank you, Seneschal. You have Our permission to leave.”

With a nod, Ceallach stepped back into the hallway. He cast one last look over his shoulder, his pale blue eyes meeting his son’s, before he vanished.

As Cahir stood near the back wall, hands hanging by his sides, Emhyr kept writing, pretending that the boy wasn’t even there.

His office was stiflingly warm. A fire, flickering in the hearth on the far side of the room, offered the only light. The crimson curtains behind Emhyr’s desk had been closed, keeping out the summer sun. Whatever Emhyr wanted, he wanted it kept private from his court.

The broadening silence was intentional. It was a tactic, Cahir knew, to create palpable tension in the room, to exert power. And Emhyr exerted power over everything; he was a force of nature – something more than human. It was no small wonder he’d retaken the throne.

After a few long minutes, Emhyr set his quill back in its holder. Sprinkling a pinch of pounce onto the letter, the Emperor folded it into thirds and sealed it with a bead of black wax. While it was still warm, he pressed his ring – bearing the Imperial insignia – into the wax and handed it to Vattier de Rideaux, the head of the Intelligence Unit, who’d been standing beside Emhyr’s s high-backed chair.

Emhyr finally looked up and Cahir’s blood ran cold.

“Please. Sit,” Emhyr said, but it was not a friendly invitation; it was an order.

Cahir moved into the chair opposite the Emperor. He was not offered food or a cup of wine like the one shimmering in the firelight next to Emhyr’s right hand. Emhyr was not particularly fond of pleasantries – they were needless wastes of time.

“It’s no secret that We move to take the North,” the Emperor explained. “Like Our father, We seek to expand the Empire, to bring the Great Sun’s Eternal Light to everyone on the Continent. In order to make Our vision reality, We need to take the Kingdom of Cintra. It is the key to conquering the Northern Realms.

“Since the passing of Princess Pavetta…” The Emperor’s tone changed for a moment so brief, Cahir couldn’t help thinking he might have imagined it. “…and her husband, Cintra has been left without a proper successor to the throne, should something happen to Calanthe.

“Fortunately, the Bitch Queen is too old to bear more children, which means that Cirilla, though a child, is her only true heir. Not only that, Calanthe’s pride has prevented her from securing a marriage proposal for the cub.” Emhyr sipped from his wine bitterly. He looked ready to spit. “Which is not surprising.”

Cahir felt the need to ask Emhyr what his problem was with Calanthe specifically; he seemed to bear particular hostility towards her, where he held only contempt for the other Northern rulers. But he bit his tongue. He was not stupid.

“If We hope to take the North, then Cintra must be secured first. The Light of the Great Sun will burn Calanthe and her ilk to cinders. Yet, in order to hold the kingdom, We plan to establish permanent relations with Cintra, which means obtaining the support of Her people.”

Cahir nodded to show that he was listening, though he needed no lessons on strategy or the importance of Cintra’s location on the Yaruga. But he knew that Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, would never relinquish her kingdom without a fight. She was a fierce queen and renowned warrior, and Cahir couldn’t even begin to imagine who would be victorious – Calanthe or Emhyr - if it came to a one-on-one fight. The thought certainly occurred to Emhyr, who intended on ruining the Cintran forces long before Calanthe would have the opportunity to face him openly herself.

“We plan to marry Princess Cirilla. Doing so will secure the peoples’ support of Our rule, and bring every Cintran province into the fold without even further bloodshed. But Calanthe will never permit such a marriage. She is too proud, too bloody stubborn. She will kill the child first, rather than hand her over.

“Which is where you, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, come in,” Emhyr said, finally reaching his point. He held his cup to his lips, which had twisted into a feline smirk. “Bring Us Cirilla Fiona Rhiannon, or perish in the trying.”

.

Cahir had to confess that the helmet was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship. It was made specially for him – a present, the messenger said, to show the Emperor’s thanks for taking on this mission (not that Cahir had much choice; _no one_ refused Emhyr, even if there was nothing in it for them) – to his precise measurements; the helm would fit no one else’s head.

It was fashioned from black steel into the face of a fearsome Griffin, two mighty wings fanning from either temple. The wing tips were tinged with crimson resin, so they looked to be burning in certain light. It matched seamlessly with his plate, which itself was nearly pure black but for hint of crimson enamel blended into the molten steel, and Great Sun on the breastplate, nestled between his ribs. The visor bore only the narrowest of slits to conceal his face from those who might suspect his intentions.

Cahir put the helmet on, testing it for comfort. He looked somewhat like a beast, like Death itself. Even his horse, a black Redanian stallion, startled, nervously pulling his reigns. His vision was harshly limited by the helm’s high visor, especially his peripheral vision, but he had little choice. He could not cross into Cintra with a bare face. Once he stole Cirilla from the capital, he could not risk being pursued by Calanthe’s men. It would be hard enough keeping her secret on the return south.

Ceallach cleared his throat. As seneschal he was not privy to Cahir’s mission specifically, but told only that the boy was heading North to collect intelligence on the Northern Realms’ fortifications – how were each of the castles or fortresses manned? How many had mottes, murder holes, or palisades? How many ships were in the waters off Redania and Skellige? Emhyr’s Intelligence Officers needed numbers: ballistae, cavalry, soldiers, siege towers and war hounds, whatever else might provide them with an edge in battle.

Cahir’s mother, Mawr, wrung her small hands together nervously. She knew less even than Ceallach. She handed her son a heavy, black cloak that completely concealed the Nilfgaardian plate he wore beneath. Made by her mother, she explained. She wanted him to wear it; she’d heard it was cold in the North. The cloak was held shut with a copper broach, cast into a star; a symbol of Vicovaro – a reminder of who he truly was.

She held Cahir’s face in both her hands, remembering the boy that had once come screaming from her womb, a head of wild black curls framing a red, shrieking face. He was now so much taller than her. She stood on her toes to kiss him softly on the lips. “Stay safe,” she whispered.

“I will.” He placed his large hand over hers, squeezing. “I promise.”

He said farewell to Ceallach with a firm embrace, his father murmuring into his ear, reminding him to return safely, no matter the cost. The Emperor would not tolerate failure.

Cahir climbed into his saddle. He smirked, feeling powerful behind his fancy new helm, in his new plate, polished to a shine. Then he pressed his thighs together and with a click of his tongue, spurred his stallion forward. He raced beneath the castle portcullis, his horse’s hooves hammering the cobblestone road - his mother’s cloak streaming behind him like black wings – to find Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra.


	2. Chapter 2

Cintra, 1263  
.

Cahir was no stranger to war. He’d killed men before, cut their throats, felt their hearts slow, their life seep from their bodies in rivers of red. But he wasn’t sure that he would ever truly be comfortable listening to men screaming in pain and terror. And Cintra was screaming, the high-pitched wails echoing into the night while mighty plumes of smoke billowed into the heavens. The sky was blood red from the fires that burned in every fortress, every house, every stable in the city. The cobbled streets were streaked with blood. Corpses lay in piles, haphazardly strewn like ragdolls. Doors had been smashed in. Market stalls were knocked over, their contents crushed beneath black boots as Imperial soldiers stormed the city, killing whatever or whoever wore Cintran colours. It was a slaughter…

Beneath his winged helmet, Cahir’s forehead was beaded with stale sweat. His lungs burned from the black smoke; it stunk like nothing he’d smelled before. His stomach roiled, threatening to heave.

He’d been in the capital for two weeks now, waiting for the opportunity to capture Cirilla. He’d rented a room in one of the city’s larger inns, the Iron Stag, near the river that cleaved the city in two.

He spent most of his time wandering Cintra’s streets, browsing the market square, listening to bands of troubadours, participating in local melees to celebrate this or that. He spun a story that he was a knight-errant, travelling the Continent in search of monsters to slay, tourneys and courtly love –the things a chivalric knight was supposed to. A few times, he was even pointed towards a contract or plea posted on the tavern wall, begging for the help of a brave knight or Witcher. He’d speak to whoever issued the contract; once he’d even taken an entire morning to locate the beast outside the city walls. It was a cluster of mamune – relatively harmless little things. But he slew them and collected the coin. For his image.

In truth, he was scouting the city for the best escape route – how many entrances there were into the city. How many were manned? How many were intended to be secret? Could he take the waterways instead? Steal a boat and ride it out to the Yaruga? Meet with a Nilfgaardian ship on the coast? It was amazing what a man might say with a bit of beer in his belly courtesy of a new friend.

He’d seen Cirilla once. On his third morning in the city, he’d left the Iron Stag before breakfast. He’d taken a narrow street that circled the castle’s curtain wall. He’d purchased an apple from a filthy peasant child with a blonde plait who clearly needed the money more than him. It was bruised, with worm holes in the brownish skin, so he’d intended to toss it into the river when he’d stumbled onto some boys playing Dead Man’s Buff. There were four of them wearing mottled tunics – likely merchant’s sons – with wooden blades hanging on their hips, pretending to be knights. By the looks of them, they were only, perhaps, a summer or two younger than he was.

One of the boys, the smallest, wearing an arming cap, was blindfolded, laughing and swinging his sword wildly. He managed to whack another boy hard on the bottom, making him squeal.

“Got’chu!” the boy cried, removing the blindfold from one, piercing eye. Several strands of silver felt from beneath his cap, framing his cheeks in chaotic curls.

Ashen hair. Eyes like flecks of emerald. In that instant, he knew that that was no merchant’s son; that wasn’t even a boy. That was Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra.

It would be so easy to have taken her right then - casually strolled over the boys in his shining, black plate, shown them his helmet or his sword. He was sure that she would have liked that. She would have held it in her hands like a secret treasure, following the crimson whorls blended into the black, the faint sparkle in the morning sunlight. She would handle his sword, feeling the weight of the blade, testing the balance (knowing that it was far too heavy for someone her size), the edge. Then he would invite them to see the blacksmith where he’d purchased it, leading them through backstreets, where no one would see them before turning on the boys, paying them an oren and a promise that he would rip their tongues out should they even whisper of what had happened here.

But even speaking to them was a risk. Cahir knew that the Queen wouldn’t be foolish enough to permit her only heir to play ragamuffin in the streets without a chaperone. Even if no one knew who she was, there were certainly those who’d hardly hesitate to harass or rob such a child. Worse still, there were more than a few men smart enough to recognize that she was female.

Cirilla, perhaps sensing his presence, turned and caught him staring. Cahir’s chest swelled with a burning sensation. Deep, primal. Like something had touched his soul, tugged on the very fiber of his being, pulling it like a bow. A key fitting into a lock. Somehow, he knew that she was everything to him now. It was both frightening and wonderful.

He slipped between two buildings like a shadow. He would have his chance. Soon…

During the evenings, he’d played cards with Cintran merchants and Dwarven smiths, his mother’s cloak hiding his identity, making sure never to lose too much, nor win every hand. He couldn’t risk a brawl over a few orens.

“Impressive,” said a Dwarven smith, turning his helmet over in his surprisingly large mittens (Cahir imagined Dwarves’ hands would be small like they bodies – but considering it, they _were_ renowned smiths). “Where’d you get it?”

They’d started to call him “The Black Knight” because of his helmet. He realized that he liked the moniker. The Black Knight.

“In Kovir,” Cahir replied. He spoke carefully, slowly, to conceal his Southern accent. “Paid seven hundred orens for it.”

“Care to bet on it next round?” the Dwarf challenged, handing it back over the card table.

“I’d sooner bet my prick.” Cahir chuckled, tucking the helm next to him on the bench. He took a long swig from his pewter mug, wiping foam from his lip on the back of his hand. He was enjoying their company, these Northerners. There was a brief twinge of regret squeezing his stomach when he remembered that Nilgaardian troops were currently en route to Cintra, razing everything in their way.

His horse snorted, stamping a hoof on the cobblestone. He was standing with five other Nilfgaardian soldiers beneath the city walls, a few streets from the castle.

“My Lord,” said one soldier. Cahir followed his line of sight.

Arrows - three shafts shot in rapid succession, burning with blue fire – flew over the Eastern parapet of the castle, clear against the bloody sky. _Cirilla has fled the castle._

The band headed for the castle, to head off Cirilla’s escape. As luck had it, the Cintrans ran right into them, in the same street where Cahir had first laid eyes on the Princess. She was nestled tightly on the back of the first horse. The six soldiers were easy to spot, wearing blue and silver tunics bearing the Cintran Lion on their chests, riding in tight formation. They wore only the lightest of steel, likely to ensure that their horses were not slowed by the weight. They were not planning on stopping.

But they had not planned on Cahir or his men either.

A Nilfgaardian soldier beside him raised a bow, notched with a black feathered fletching.

“Do _not_ harm her,” he hissed. The Nilfgaardian nodded faintly. His tone left no room for questions.

With a chirp, the arrow loosed, and found its mark, right in the lead soldier’s eye socket. The Cintran’s horse screamed, startled, and reared back, sending Cirilla tumbling from the saddle with a cry. She found her legs hastily, scurrying into one of the backstreets before the frightened horse could trample her. Cahir clicked his heels, spurring his horse on, following the billow of her sky blue cloak into the side street.

Another Cintran cut him off, ramming his mare into Cahir’s stallion. Cahir pressed his thighs together; he’d participated in tourneys back in Vicavaro and while he was hardly the best rider, he knew how to keep his seat. The Cintran, however, lost his. The Cintran landed roughly on the cobbles, cracking his head on the flat stones. Cahir turned his horse back, pulling his sword from the sheath strapped to his saddle. The Cintran was wobbly but managed to find his feet, pulling his own sword out. There was blood on his face from the crack in his skull, but he raised the blade to meet the Black Knight’s blow. The blades clanged together, shooting sparks through Cahir’s forearm. He pulled hard on his reigns, forcing his horse to balk sharply. The flailing hooves sent the Cintran stumbling, still faint from his earlier fall. Cahir expertly spun his sword, plunging the blade into the Cintran’s exposed back with a squelch.

An arrow struck him in the back, bouncing harmlessly off his smooth steel plate without a nick. He turned and found a third Cintran with a bow focused on him, his eyes wide. Firelight skipped over the curves of Cahir’s helmet, the resin tips burning. The Cintran took off running, but even the fastest sprinter, not slowed by chainmail, couldn’t outrun a horse at full speed. Cahir cleaved the Cintran’s head in two, shoving the body off the blade with a firm kick.

As he surveyed the carnage, his lips twisted. All six Cintran’s had been slain, but not without a fight. Cahir’s men lay beside them; throats cut from ear to ear, helms smashed in, innards spilling like maggots from open bellies, shields in splinters.

He pressed his teeth together behind his lips. _Shit…_

A crate fell over, smashing onto the cobbles. The Princess ran further into the backstreet, hoping to put space between them. Cahir knew the passage was far too narrow to fit in with his horse. But he hadn’t simply been playing cards for the past week. He knew exactly where each street led out and he met her on the other side.

Cirilla screamed and came to a shuddering stop. She intended to turn back, veer into one of the other passages, crawl into a house or shop, but Cahir leaned over before she could run, snatching the back of her cloak with ease. The Princess, shrieking like a feral cat, pummelled him with her small fists. He hoisted her into his saddle, taking the blows without much thought.

He nestled her on his lap and wrapped her in his mother’s cloak, covering her own blue, Cintran one. When Ciri realized that her hits had no effect on him, she fell still. Cahir kept her pressed tightly to his strong chest so she wouldn’t fall. He covered her ears so she wouldn’t hear the city’s screams and her eyes so she wouldn’t see the bodies littering the streets; the bodies of her people. A small favour.

He clicked his tongue and his horse lurched forward, leaving the burning city behind them.

.

Cahir pressed forward, riding like the wind, certain that his stallion’s heart would burst before they had put enough leagues between themselves and the Capital. Eventually, the sky started to brighten over the Eastern horizon, turning from pure black to the colour of brushed iron. It looked like rain.

Cahir slowed to a trot and checked on Ciri. The Princess, either from exhaustion or shock, had fallen into a restless sleep sometime in the night. She was making mewling sounds, but her breathing was rhythmic; steady. She was covered in layers of soot, her silver hair nearly black, but otherwise seemed to be intact. Fortunate; he couldn’t imagine the Emperor would be thrilled if she was an ear short of a pair.

A few hours later, the heavens opened, floodgates pouring rain onto the Cintran countryside. In minutes, Cahir’s cloak was soaked to its lining.

There was a band of refugees camped on the side of the main road; Cintrans fleeing the slaughter. They seemed to believe that they were far from the fighting; perhaps they were right. The troops were heading North, not South. There would be clusters of soldiers following the main troops, clearing out pockets of resistance fighters or settling conquered territory, building camps or fortresses, issuing pardons or punishments, selecting seneschals. But for the most part, refugees would be safe. Emhyr would not set his men on civilians once the country had been taken.

Cahir removed his winged helm, hiding it in one of his saddlebags before climbing from his horse. He held Ciri firmly, one hand beneath her knees, the other supporting her neck. He might have left her with his horse, but he wasn’t sure what would happen when she woke. Ciri’s cloaked head was covering the Great Sun on his plate, and his face was covered in enough soot to convince them he was a refugee like they were.

“That yer girl?” a peasant woman wondered, filling two wooden bowls with a hearty rabbit stew.

He took the two bowls with a small thanks, but shook his head. “My sister.” Cahir had three sisters, so the lie came easily. “I heard on the wind that the Nilfgaardians were coming. We managed to flee the city right when the walls fell, thank the Mother. We’ve been riding all night.” The best lies were sprinkled with a bit of truth.

“Where’re ye headin’?” She offered him a heel of bread. He took it, sitting on the back of the wagon where the woman had set up her station. The stew was surprisingly tasty, flavoured with chestnuts, salt and seasoned vegetables. He saved Ciri’s portion for later.

“We have relatives in Nazair,” he replied. “’We’ll stay with my father’s sister ‘til Calanthe retakes the city.”

The peasant woman’s face fell when he said that. She wiped her face with her sleeve. “Can’t see that happenin’, I’m ‘fraid. Queen Calanthe killed herself - leapt from one of them towers.”

Cahir stopped eating, his teeth biting into his spoon. “Dead?” He chose his next words carefully. “What of the Princess?”

“Cirlla? Dead too, poor thing. Calanthe killed her sos the Nilfgaardians wouldn’t have her. Can’t imagine what would have happened to her if they had.”

He pressed Ciri harder to his chest harder, something that the peasant woman interpreted to be brotherly concern – what if that had been _her_?

But the news was fortunate. If the people thought Ciri had perished in the flames, there would be fewer Cintrans looking for her, which would make the trip back to Emhyr much easier. Of course, that was assuming Ciri held her little tongue. She wouldn’t be sleeping forever.

He remained in the camp for several hours, prying for information from the other refugees. Calanthe had been protective of the cub, like Emhyr had said, especially since losing Pavetta. It seemed few people other than Calanthe’s court had even seen Ciri. She was known to have her mother’s emerald eyes and flaxen hair but little else. Truth be told, Cahir could have snatched any blonde-haired child and called her Ciri; the Emperor would have never been the wiser. (But of course, he valued his life).

Eventually, he left the camp; even if no one knew what Ciri looked like, the fewer people that saw them, the better. He made his own camp near a small stream far off the main road, close enough that he could fill his skins and wash in the cool current – and close enough that Ciri couldn’t risk running before he’d catch her – but far enough that they wouldn’t fall in in the night.

He set her on his bedroll, placing a firm pillow beneath her silver head. He could sleep on the bare earth; it hardly mattered.

He lit a fire to boil water for washing. They were both filthy and the less like Cintrans they – or rather _she_ – looked, the better.

While he waited for the water, Cahir loosened his mail, making himself more comfortable. He folded his hands like a pillow behind his head. His thighs were burning from riding for so long. They’d be even worse by tomorrow, but he knew he shouldn’t complain. Emhyr would certainly reward him once he returned to Cirilla. There was little more that the Emperor might offer; already Cahir held the title of Count in Vicavaro. He was not related to Emhyr like Anna Henrietta, so he’d never become Duke – except, perhaps, through marriage to someone that was – but maybe a marquisate might be nice. If nothing else, he would be promoted in the Intelligence Service.

That was all considering he managed to bring Ciri safely to Loc Grim, the Emperor’s summer home where he was instructed to meet them – Emhyr and his inner court. There were countless obstacles between here and there, not to mention the Cub herself. He’d have to figure out some way of silencing her.

Perhaps, if he could explain that he had no intention of harming her…Perhaps she’d realize that he wasn’t an enemy.


	3. Chapter 3

Cintra, 1263  
.

At sunset, Ciri stirred from sleep. Cahir realized he’d started to nod off – Great Sun he was exhausted – when he heard her skirts rustling softly on the bedroll.

Ciri rubbed sleep from her eyes. Had it merely been a nightmare – the fall of the city?

Instead of the ceiling of her poster bed, covered in sparkling, blue silk, however, she found herself staring at brightening stars, stretched thin over a black blanket. The fire nearby popped, sending sparks into the night sky. Ciri rolled her neck to one side, found the man sitting nearby, wearing a cloak covered in soot over polished black plate. The Black Knight in the winged helm!

Her heart racing, Ciri scrambled to her feet. Her mind was a blur – fly! She sprinted for the woods; it would be easy to put space between them in there, where bogs, brambles, branches, and fallen trunks would be far more cumbersome to someone wearing heavy steel than her, in her simple cloak. She was faster than Cahir had imagined, but her lungs were still weak from inhaling so much smoke, threatening to collapse. In moments, her legs started to feel like soaked straw. Cahir caught her easily enough, tackled her, knocking the last remaining breath from her lungs. She coughed, spittle flying from her cracked lips.

“Stop struggling,” Cahir said, climbing onto her, pinning her legs beneath his knees so she wouldn’t have room to wiggle free. He pressed her wrists into the muck on either side of her head, sinking into the wet, black mud. Ciri’s screams became shrill, enough to cause his ears to ring. Still, he held on.

Cahir leaned forward, pressing his shoulder to her mouth, the fabric of his mother’s cloak smothered her screams. She continued thrashing for some time, biting the cloak with her teeth. But her childish strength – enhanced though it was by fear – was nothing to his. Once more, she fell still. Cahir remained where he was for several long moments, sure that she was feigning loss.

But even when he leaned back, Ciri refused to fight him. She turned her face from his. Because she was embarrassed or enraged, he was not sure.

His kettle sputtered over the fire; the water has reached a boil. He released her wrists. She lay still.

He rose and paused, expecting Ciri to bolt. Nothing. Perhaps she’d finally learned she could not hope to best him in speed or strength. Good; she would be more obedient on the ride South then.

Cahir covered his hands with his cloak so he wouldn’t burn himself on the hot metal, then brought the kettle over to where Ciri lay, wearing a frown. Better to clean her off first, he thought. He could easily wash himself the next time she slept.

He set the kettle beside him to cool, then knelt with his knees on Ciri’s toes. She whimpered, but he ignored it. He still couldn’t risk her running.

He reached for the clasp of her cloak, folding it messily. He would have to burn it, replace it with a black cloak instead. Beneath, Ciri was wearing her nightclothes: a simple, white nightshift with blue sparrows embroidered on the cuffs, neck and skirt trim. The buttons were pure silver, with egg-shaped sapphires embedded in the center of each one. She’d been sleeping when the walls of the city fell.

But now her pretty shift was speckled with black soot, blood and mud. He reached for the buttons, carefully removing each one so he wouldn’t break them. Perhaps one of the Emperor’s tailors could save them, sew them onto something new. When he’d removed the last one, he pushed her shift from her shoulders. That was when she twitched with renewed strength.

Ciri hissed like a cat, baring her little teeth, and clawed at him with her manicured nails. Cahir easily caught her hands, twisting her wrists - not to harm her, but to cause her silver brow to furrow.

It occurred to him how improper it must have looked; the Princess, stripped to her waist, her legs spread beneath him. She probably thought he intended to force himself on her – many men in his position likely would've.

And Cahir had known a few women. He was a man; he’d lost his virginity years ago to a beautiful, brown-eyed courtesan his brother, Dheran, hired on his sixteenth birthday. Since then, he visited a number of Vicovaro’s brothels – the cleaner establishments, of course; no son of the Emperor’s seneschal would be caught in some cheap, flea-ridden whorehouse. Besides that, he served in the Intelligence Service. He was required to use whatever method necessary to extract information from suspects or witnesses. Sometimes that meant stabbing a hand. Sometimes it meant stabbing…other things.

But Cirilla was a child. She was a skinny little thing with a chest like a boy. Even if she were not the Emperor’s intended, he wasn’t the type who forced himself on women, or worse, children.

Ciri’s face flushed, but remained bitter. He soaked a cloth in the warm water and, cupping her chin firmly in one hand, started to clean her face. He traced careful circles over her skin, the blood, mud and soot coming off in smears. There were freckles on her nose, he realized with a bit of a smile.

She was a cute kid. Cahir had heard her mother was a beauty, and her father handsome, though he’d never seen either of them himself. Queen Calanthe was rumoured to be comely, though much older. It seemed likely that Ciri would become even more beautiful once she'd reached womanhood.

Although far from sexual, washing her was an intimate act, more so than he’d initially thought. He was seeing - touching - her like no one else had. It felt…wrong. Ciri deserved better than this – better than _him_. She should’ve been washed by Calanthe, or Pavetta – someone who could make her feel loved. Safe. Not some foreign soldier hired to bring her to the other side of the Continent to marry a man old enough to be her father.

As he moved to her chest, running the wet cloth over her little, pointed breasts that had only started to bud, he felt his blood boil in his veins. Emhyr was even old enough to be _his_ father. Of what importance would Ciri then be to him then? 

It was well known in court that Emhyr fancied beautiful women and had taken Aine Dermont and Clara aep Gwyndolyn Gor into his royal bed. He’d replace Clara soon enough, once he met someone he liked more. 

He’d likely only marry the Princess to secure the North, then cart her back to the embers of Cintra to be his puppet while he passed the time with court harpies – each of them clawing like cats to see which one would capture his whims next. Then, once she started to bleed, he’d visit her, perhaps every few months, in the hopes of siring a son. She was simply a chess piece, to move wherever he wished.

He muttered something beneath his breath, hating himself for participating in this perverted scheme. Ciri welped and Cahir realized he’d started to press the cloth hard into her, leaving long, pink marks on her pale skin. He saw the fear in her large, emerald pools. She probably thought he was angry because of her.

“Forgive me; I never meant to…” he said softly. That was when Cahir realized: he’d stupidly been speaking Nilfgaardian this entire time!

He meant to say that he wouldn’t harm her, that he only meant to bring her South to meet the Emperor, that he would ensure her safety, but his mind blanked. He couldn’t remember the words! _Fuck…_

As he searched his memory, he made several strange noises. The harder he strained, the fewer words he remembered. He felt like he was having some kind of stroke.

Finally, he managed a meager, “Hurt. No. Princess.”

Cahir felt like a blathering rock troll. Maybe non-verbal communication would make more sense. He pointed to himself, then her, then he shook his head. _I’ll not harm you…_

Ciri covered herself with her hands while he stood to retrieve the black breeches and matching tunic from his saddlebags that he’d brought for her. Over top, she was to wear a simple, leather vest with silver studs, and a hat with a big, blue feather to cover her fair hair. She’d look more Nilfgaardian than Cintran that way.

As Ciri put the clean clothes on, he warmed her stew over the fire. When Cahir handed her the bowl, she took a few tentative bites, but later set it beside her; she wasn’t hungry. Instead, she sat silently, her knees to her chest, staring into the fire.

“Princess,” he said, for it was one of the few words he remembered. Ciri looked over. He pressed his palms together, tucking them beneath his ear. _Sleep._

It would be cold once the fire had burned out; they’d need to keep warm. He waved her over so she would be laying on the bedroll. She obeyed, shuffling closer, though not without a frown. He lifted his cloak like a bat’s wing and Ciri hesitantly crawled in, pressing herself to his warm chest. It was better than freezing. He covered her, tucking her in tightly.

Cahir felt her trembling, her face in the folds of black wool; it was not the cold, though. She was silently weeping.

“It’s okay…” Cahir said in Nilfgaardian. He placed a hand on to back of her head, stroking her silver hair softly. He hoped she would know, somehow, what he meant.

.

A few hours later, Ciri pushed the edge of the Black Knight’s cloak from her face. His fire had long since burned out, the embers nothing but a cool pile of white.

Ciri couldn’t sleep. She’d slept plenty since leaving the city, her body, mind and nerves exhausted from the horror of fleeing the castle, the bloody slaughter in the streets – when _he’d_ killed her knights. Knights like Sir Lazlo – noble Sir Lazlo… But now, when Ciri closed her eyes she only saw the burning city, the black smoke, the bloody cobblestones, the horses lying in the streets, their riders smashed to bits, heads knocked clean off, the fire shining on the Black Knight’s helm.

She carefully pressed her shoulder into the Knight’s broad chest, testing to see whether he would respond to her touch. But he was even more exhausted that she was, having not slept since the morning the Black Ones reached the city. It took half the week for them to breach the walls and he’d not slept more than a few hours in that time.

Ciri held her breath, like that would somehow stop him waking, while she slowly crawled from beneath his cloak. If he woke, she would simply tell him – or rather, suggest, since he seemed not to know the Common Tongue – that she was making water. But he’d seen her naked, so he might still insist on keeping watch, for what now was there to hide?

She stood, her legs still weak, and scanned the camp for something helpful. She had to find help. But who? Surely the countryside would be crawling with Black Ones. And even Cintrans, once they learned who she was, might turn her over to them to spare themselves – to earn the Empire’s favour.

There was Geralt…the Witcher from Brokolin Forest. He’d threatened to whip her with his leather belt several times before he’d learned who she was, but she had liked him regardless. And besides, he was her Destiny.

_It’s settled,_ Ciri thought. She would find Geralt, then. He would help her. Of that she was certain.

But where would she start looking? Witchers never stayed in one place for long; they went wherever there was work. Oh well; she would figure it out. First she needed to escape from the Black Knight.

His stallion - a beautiful beast she had to confess - was tied to a nearby tree. Ciri considered stealing him, then thought better of it. The saddle was far too large to climb into by herself. Plus, the horse would certainly make noise the moment she touched his reigns. She’d have to risk running, to risk that he’d track her into the forest.

Unless…if the Knight never woke, he’d never track her.

There were large rocks nearer the riverbed, she noticed, shining silver in the moonlight. She raised one rock with both hands, testing the weight.

She stood over the Knight. She had often scuffled with a few of the boys from the streets, though had never seriously hurt one of them, nor they her. The only thing Ciri had ever killed was a rat that had snuck into the larder once, scaring the cook. She’d hated the feeling – the wet crunch – of the creature’s insides smushing beneath her book, ironically titled _On the Preservation of Species_.

Would his skull make the same sound when she smashed it with her rock?

She could feel her heart pounding, so hard she feared it would be what woke him. She could hear Grandmama’s voice echoing in her head. _Do it. Kill him…You are a fierce Lioness of Cintra! He is nothing…A lowly Nilfgaardian soldier…_

The Black Knight was breathing heavily, his lashes fluttering. He was…kind of pretty, she thought, watching a black curl bounce on his forehead with each exhale. When he was sleeping, that is.

_He never hesitated when he killed Lazlo or the others. Why’re you hesitating now…?_

Ciri let the rock tumble from her hands, landing with a heavy thud beside her. She couldn’t kill him. She should, but she couldn’t. Perhaps it was because he was helpless. If he was conscious, she wouldn’t feel so bad, certainly…

So instead, she stole his pack. She stopped momentarily, her chest tightening, when she threw her old, stained clothes out. Her last connection to Cintra, to her home. But there was no time to be sentimental. Wiping her tears in her sleeve, Ciri stuffed the pack with bread, cheese, fruit, strips of salted beef, one of the leather skins of water – enough so that she wouldn’t be forced to forage for mushrooms or nuts. She took his hunting knife too.

Ciri took one last look over her shoulder before heading into the woods. _Farewell, Black Knight_ … she thought, hoping it was for the last time.

.

A carrion crow, sitting in one of the nearby trees, cawed loudly, ruffling its wings. It smelled blood – meat – on the wind.

Cahir moaned, exhausted. The crow kept squawking.

“Shut up…” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. That only seemed to rile the crow more. The chill of the evening had vanished, replaced with a late summer warmth. A considerable improvement – other than the crow.

“Fuck off!” He sat up and chucked a rock into the trees, missing the crow – though only slightly. The bird, shrieking, took flight, leaving behind flurries of black feathers.

The bloody thing probably woke Ciri too, poor thing... _Ciri…?!_

The Princess wasn’t beside him, where he’d tucked her in last night. Cahir pulled back his cloak stupidly, like she could somehow be hidden beneath the folds of black fabric. She was thin, though not _that_ thin.

“Cirilla!” he shouted, his heart pounding. She is relieving herself, in the bushes or something, he thought – he _hoped_. He ran to the edge of the water, his thoughts whirling. He prayed to whomever would listen that Ciri hadn’t fallen in, that he wouldn’t find her little body, bloated and blue, tangled in the weeds. But there were no other footprints near the bank; only his large boots. Thank the Great Sun.

So then, where _was_ she?

He spotted the tracks in the muck near the bedroll where she’d slept. They led north, back into the forest where she’d tried running to last night.

“Shit!” Cahir ran his fingers through his black hair. “Fuck!” he screamed, and kicked a rock, sending sparks of pain through his leg. “Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck_!”

He packed his things as fast as he could manage, noticing in the process that the little whelp had stolen his pack of supplies and his hunting knife too. Fortunately, he might not even live long enough to be beheaded by Emhyr – he’d starve first.

He climbed into his saddle and followed her into the forest, where her small footprints were easily lost in the foliage. A branch was broken, splintered near the tip. It wasn’t a particularly thick branch, but thick enough that she'd thought it would bear her weight while she climbed higher onto an elevated plateau. He tied his horse to a tree and followed her into the thicket.

Fortunately, she hadn’t really thought about concealing her tracks, or she simply had no notion of the trail she was leaving. The floor of the forest was covered in leaves, but there were other signs that the Princess traveled this way: Dry leaves that were facing skywards – it rained recently so the leaves should’ve been wet – bent flowers, broken cobwebs in between branches – spiders only spun webs in the evening; she’d passed through her sometime between last night and early morning.

A branch snapped and Cahir looked up. Elves – four of them – knelt in the trees, bows trained expertly on him. Scoia’tel, he knew from the severed tails they wore on their belts, hats or tied to sleeves.

“Don’t move, Dh’oine,” said one Squirrel, a female, with hair like fire. The tip of her left ear had been cut – too clean to be from an animal bite.

Cahir raised both hands. The Emperor had employed many Scoia’tel commandos, promising them their owns state in exchange for their support, though Cahir made no presumptions that every Squirrel was compliant, nor that they would care if there was coin to be made or men to slay with no witnesses. But, they weren’t without reason; they wanted him to see them. They would have shot him through by now, otherwise.

“N’aen aespar a me,” he said slowly in the Elder Speech. “Don’t shoot. I’m not Cintran. My plate." He rolled his shoulder so his cloak fell to one side. "See the Great Sun? It means I’m one of the ‘Black Ones’. From Nilfgaard.” Technically, he was from Vicovaro, but this wasn’t exactly the right time or place to be specific.

She snorted. “Could’ve stolen that. Lots o’ corpses on the roads. Southern Dh’oine too.”

“I speak Elven. My name too,” he replied. “Cahir aep Mawr. No Northerners have names like that.”

“Caelm evellieni,” another Squirrel cut in, emerging from the cover of the trees. Her long, brown hair was braided into two plaits, twisted behind her head. Her forehead was covered in markings, a crown of floral whorls. She was older than the first She-Elf, though Elves lived longer than humans so it was hard to know. “He speaks truth. He’s of the Empire.”

She turned her sharp, blue eyes on him. “You seek the Child?”

“How…?”

“Don’t look so surprised, Dh’ione,” the Elf said, casually tightening her leather cuffs. “These’re our woods. I know everythin’ that happens in or near ‘em. I was watchin’ last night. Call it curiosity.”

Cahir’s eyes narrowed. “Then you know where she went.”

“I watched her leave. She had little trouble.” She smirked. “Her protector, ever vigilant.”

Cahir pressed his lips together, biting the insult on his tongue. “Where is she?”

“I said I saw her leave. Never said I knew where she went. Couldn’t really care less. Though she’s special – that much’s obvious. Why else would one of the Emperor’s lackeys be sniffin’ in our woods?”

“A political prisoner,” he replied. “That’s it.”

The Elf ran a finger along her cheek. One of the Elves loosed, hitting the tree behind his head so close that Cahir could feel the breeze it made when it passed. “Don’t lie, Dh’oine. I know when humans’re lyin’.”

Cahir had no choice. “She is Princess Cirilla. Emperor Emhyr sent me to bring her to him in Loc Grimm.”

“Hm…” The Elf seemed to be weighing his words. “Had I known that I might’ve captured her meself. Can imagine The White Flame would pay well for her. I’ll have me people search for her. We will find her.”

Cahir nodded. “Thank you.”

“Eh? For what?” Her thin, brown brows rose. “ _We_ will find her. The Emperor will pay for her, handsomely, or we’ll cut her cunny out; send it to him in a fancy box. He might prefer that, now that I think of it.

“You, however…No…Shouldn’t think he’d pay one oren for – ” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Cahir moved like a bolt of black lightning, slicing the She-Elf’s throat with his sword. He wasn’t sure what exactly set him off – her insolence or her insult towards Ciri. Either way, he’d moved before even he realized.

Clutching her throat, she stumbled, falling to her knees. All at once, the remaining Squirrels loosed their bows, but Cahir leapt into the bushes, scrambling behind one of the trees. He knew he’d never outrun them; they were fast, nimble, and knew the woods better than him. His only option was making a stand. The odds were hardly in his favour. A single Squirrel would have proven a challenge.

He removed the snap that held his helmet to his belt, putting it on.

Better to leave this world by his own terms, he thought.

He heard the Elves leaping from the branches. Three had left their lofty perches. One remained, likely to cover the others. They circled the tree. Cahir kept his back pressed to the rough trunk so the Elf in the tree had no clear target. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. The Elves held only a knife or short sword, better suited for stealthy kills than open combat. The first of the Elves, a blonde male, struck first, lunging forward like a cat.

But Cahir raised his sword to parry the blow, the momentum of the blade bouncing off carrying the Elf forward. Cahir shifted slightly, turning his body so that his blade came up beneath the Elf’s right shoulder, severing the limb neatly. Blood sprayed into the crack in his visor between his eyes, forcing him to close them. He spun, meeting the second Elf with a blind, downwards slash. The Elf skipped back expertly, his sword meeting no resistance. She bent her knees low, intending to knock the breath from his lungs. He sidestepped her leap, cutting her from the back of one shoulder to her hip. He finished with a sharp thrust right through her leather vest.

The Elf in the tree, the fiery-haired one with a cut ear, found her opportunity. She shot him through his left shoulder, hitting the soft, stripped fabric beneath his pauldron. Cahir clenched his teeth, falling to his knee. With his sword, he snapped off the head. The thin wood broke easily enough and he pulled the remaining shaft from his muscle.

The third Elf screamed, climbing onto his lowered shoulders. He pinned Cahir’s neck between his thighs, his long fingers searching for the snaps that held his bevor in place. If he could expose Cahir’s throat… Cahir fell flat on his back, crushing him, but failing to shake the Elf loose. The Elf snatched a rock, smashing it on the helm. The metal sang but held. Cahir reached up, blindly clawing, his skull throbbing. He felt the curve of the Elf’s legs. He rammed his fist into the sensitive spot between the Elf’s thighs. It produced the exact response in the Elf that it produced in men. It wasn’t exactly honourable, but he wasn’t fighting in a tourney. He was fighting for his life.

Cahir rolled to one side, finding his feet. The Elf was clutching his crushed testicles, his face pinched. Cahir placed his foot overtop the Elf’s hands, stepping even harder. The Elf squealed, but not for long. Cahir stabbed him in the belly, forever silencing his screams.

The remaining Elf in the tree, the same She-Elf with the torn ear loosed a second shaft, but it bounced harmlessly off his helm. She fired a third time, but missed completely. She was beginning to panic.

Cahir knew he’d never reach her there, but the fallen Elves had bows of their own. Picking the closest Elf’s bow, he notched an arrow and fired into the trees. He missed, but narrowly, sending her toppling from the tree, like the crow he’d chased off earlier that morning. She scrambled to her feet, hoping to loose one more shaft before he was close enough that it would be pointless. The Great Sun was shining on him, for he managed to raise the blade in time to knock it into the brush.

The She-Elf swore beneath her breath, searching her leathers for her short sword. She slashed, but Cahir nimbly bowed his head, her swing brushing the fiery tips of his wings. He retaliated with a broad sweep, catching her off balance. Elves seldom wore boots, so his blade met no resistance, slicing neatly through her soft tendons. The Elf fell backwards, her knife tumbling from her loosened fingers.

“Please! No!” she begged, raising both her hands in surrender. “Don’t kill me. I saw ‘er – the Princess!”

Cahir kicked her knife further into the brush and held his blade to her throat. “You never said so before.” His voice echoed, half-muffled, behind his visor.

“Aen Seidhe support our own. A foreign concept to Dh’oine, I see.”

Cahir clicked his tongue and pressed the tip of the sword to her throat, enough that a bead of crimson fell from her narrow, sun-tanned neck. He wasn’t in the mood to trade barbs. “Where is she?”

“First, swear’t let me live.”

Cahir hesitated, considering it. Then, “Fine. I swear.” He lowered his sword.

The She-Elf exhaled slowly. “I saw the little sparrow movin’ North-West, towards a Dh’oine village. You might still catch ‘er.”

He sheathed his sword. “That’s wasn’t hard, now was it? Your companions might have lived had they been so civilized.”

“Then…You ain’t going to kill me?” she wondered.

“I swore I wouldn’t.” Cahir removed his stuffy helm, shaking his hair, which clung to his sweaty forehead, loose. The forest now smelled heavily of blood. “I’m not concerned though. You can’t run with feet like that. And it’s only a matter of time before something – Ghouls or Nekkers, perhaps – smell the blood. I would have preferred a clean end, myself. But…” He shrugged, watching her large eyes widen even more. “To each his own.”

“You mean to leave me?”

“Call it repayment for this,” he replied, revealing the bloody hole in his sleeve where she’d shot him; the muscle still stung, throbbing with each heartbeat. He’d need to clean it, soon, or it would become infected. His mouth tasted sour, stale, and he spat into the blood-speckled mulch.

“Bastard!” she shouted. “Dishonourable whoreson!”

Cahir spun on his heel, ignoring her increasingly crude insults. His thoughts turned back to Ciri. Clouds had once more moved over the blazing sun, casting the forest in near blackness. Perhaps Cahir could find her before she reached the human village. He preferred not to have to kill more people. But there were countless places in this forest where a child like Ciri, fearless in her own way, could find shelter, and few of them particularly safe.

Cahir closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. He would find her. He had no choice. Without her, his life was forfeit…


End file.
